The Blood That Stains Your Hands (34 page)

'I'm going to have to ask you to accompany us to the station,' says Taylor.

'Why?'

'We have a phone message to tie you to the scene of one crime, and possibly a DNA sample to tie you to an—'

'Fuck!'

Whoa. Didn't see that coming. Sure, if you imagine someone is capable of murder, then you've got to imagine that the word fuck might occasionally trip lightly from their lips. But it's not that. It's the cave. The guy caved, right there. He screamed fuck, and he caved.

'Fuck,' he says again, this time less of an ejaculation, more of a resigned statement of despair.

'If you'd like to put anything away, lock anything up, you may do so, but do it quickly and in the knowledge that we will have a warrant to search the premises.'

'Fuck,' says the vicar again, this time with added bite. 'How did you know? Seriously, how the fuck did you know?'

Jesus, for a vicar this guy's language is terrible.

He leans forwards, elbow on the desk, rubs a finger down the middle of his brow. 'Fuck it, man,' he says, then he laughs and sits back. Shaking his head, looking between the two of us. Funny how some people will tough it out as long as possible, and some will just throw in the towel.

However, usually the throw-in-the-towel brigade will have cause to regret, and often repent, their loquaciousness.

Both elbows on the table now, still shaking his head. The look comes into his eyes. The look that says he's going to regain control, of the conversation at least, if not exactly the situation.

'What have you got?' he says.

'I've given you the time to clear up your things,' says Taylor. He looks at me, gives me a nod. I turn my back on the two of them, take out my phone, make the five-second call back to the station to get the patrol car down here.

'Fuck.'

Turn round. This time it's Taylor. The reverend, sure enough, has decided to bring a gun to the discussion.

'Put it down,' says Taylor.

Stare him down, although he's not looking at me. He's interested in the boss. I contemplate charging at him. Do I care if I die?

Jesus, yes. Yes! I do care. Because of Philo. I don't know what that is, but it's because I want to think about her. I want to take her memory home with me. I want to listen to her voice again.

It'll be awkward as fuck, especially if her husband makes some kind of speech, but I want to go to her funeral. I want to remember her.

A gun? Seriously. For God's sake.

'Why?' says Taylor.

Now we're into it. When the guy is coming to the station, you don't want the random confession, you don't want it blurted out like you're in the last two minutes of a TV crime drama and you have to squeeze in all the explanation before the ten o'clock news. The gun on the table is a bit of game changer, however.

'Oh, please, Chief Inspector,' he says. Wonderfully annoyed tone, as if it's absurd that Taylor would ask. 'That arsehole Cartwright and his happy little band of brothers. Jesus. This is my church. MY church! How dare they? They weren't fucking touching it. Fucking Cartwright. That guy was just... he was just a dickhead, with his Daniel obsession and....'

'Why bother trying to fake suicide, when at the same time you were trying to frame Cartwright?' I ask.

On the other hand, might as well get the questions in while he's spilling the beans. Nothing like having a lawyer in the room to shut you up.

He waves the gun. Steady on there, Sundance.

'Aw, crap, I don't know. Keeping my options open, juggling a few balls, that was all. Options. We all need options, and then that idiot Christie walks in on me and I had to put a bullet in his wife's mouth. Jesus.'

'And it was Forsyth who told you about Cartwright's group?'

Jones sneers. A slight shake of the head, a disdainful laugh. Said all he's going to say. A slight twitch. He lifts the gun, puts it in his mouth, pulls the trigger. The noise fills the room. The back of his head explodes, blood and skull and brain matter carpet the wall behind him. His arms drop, his body jerks against the back of the chair, what's left of his head then falls forward and thumps onto the table.

'Bollocks,' mutters Taylor. 'Fucking bollocks.'

––––––––

'W
hat did she mean?' asks Taylor. 'When she said she was leaving you another message?'

3.31 a.m. Wrapping up the crime scene for the night. The vicar's office is awash with our lot. The body has been removed. Taylor is fucked off, and fair enough. Never good when a suspect kills himself in the presence of the police. And no matter the evidence, there will be no end of fuckers who will be happy to assume that we shot him.

Connor has been and gone. He can be relieved, at least, that this whole thing was not down to someone from his blessed congregation. On the other hand, he'll have to handle the fall-out from making a total bell-end of himself over the false arrest of Cartwright. Smooth that one out with all your church buddies, you stupid prick.

'I don't know,' I say. Have been thinking about it myself. And I really don't.

'You look shit, Sergeant.'

'Thanks.'

'Yeah, we all look shit. Listen, I'm going into the office, will work through, get this wrapped up. Maybe aim to work until lunch or so, then I'm going home to crash. You go home now, get some sleep. Be in before I leave and we'll see where we're at.'

'You sure?'

'Of course. Go.'

He turns away from the splatter on the wall, at which we've both been staring transfixed for the past few minutes. I do believe that at any other time he might have suggested that I stay away from alcohol. He knows, however, that that won't be an issue. He puts his hand on my shoulder, the slightest squeeze.

'Hope you can sleep all right. Sorry about the woman.'

*

E
arly morning. Still dark, still damp. Rain coming on again.

Walk back to the flat. Tired, drained. Am I really going to make it into work for midday? Of course I am. What else is there?

You don't think it's often like this?

There just won't be answers to all the questions. Jesus, everyone's dead. How are they going to give us answers? So we're left guessing. The important thing is that the killing will stop, and that there's someone at whose door the blame is definitely laid.

What do we suppose? That Reverend Jones was trying to frame Cartwright, using an obvious biblical reference with a connection to the guy? Maybe that was all it was. The press can write about it for a while, and the town can gather in huddled groups and gossip. The latter will last much longer than the former.

God knows what will happen to St Stephen's. Well, possibly even God doesn't know. Will they have the balls to go looking for a new minister, or will they fold?

Close the front door, walk through to the sitting room, stand at the window and look down. Spend so much time here when I come in after dark. Nothing to see but an empty street, yet it's beguiling in the deserted middle of the night in a way that it's not during the day.

If St Stephen's folds, who wins? Cartwright. Hmm. Cartwright wins.

No, I don't think there's anywhere to go with that thought. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow afternoon, when I've got time to sit down and think things through with a clear head. Yes, Cartwright wins, but how could he have manipulated this situation? How could he have arranged for Reverend Jones to so quickly implode?

No, I'm not thinking about it.

The red light, reflected in the window, is still flashing. I watch it for a moment, then turn. I listened to the message. It shouldn't be flashing any more. It wasn't flashing when I went out earlier.

Someone must have left a message in the middle of the night.

I stand there staring at the phone, getting a peculiar, uneasy feeling. Finally let out a long sigh and walk over to the phone. What am I worried about? Everyone's already dead, aren't they?

Press the button. The machine clicks and buzzes. The recorded message begins. A lot of static, like a call from far away. Another time.

'Thank you.'

Click.

I look down at the phone. The voice of a young girl.

Shivers, a sudden thump of the heart. I turn and look at the room, half-expecting her to be there, but of course she's not. If she had been, she wouldn't have had to leave a message... And she's dead, so how could she be there? She was never there. She always just found her way into my nightmares.

I play the message again. It's gone. There is no message.

I feel so screwed up that I don't know if there ever was a message. I imagine her voice, the voice that had spoken to me so many times, saying those two words.
Thank you
. I can hear her right now, if I concentrate.

What am I thinking?

Go to bed, Sergeant.

Into the bathroom, clean my teeth. Stand staring at myself for a while. Have my clothes dried on me yet? Not quite. Strip off, step into the shower. Hot water, steam quickly filling the room. Five minutes, that's all. Feels like the first warmth for a long time.

Tired.

Out the shower, dry myself off, walk into the bedroom. Stand there for a moment in the dark and the shadows cast by the streetlights. Look at the bed. I've been avoiding it.

How many nights? Doesn't matter. Will it still smell of her?

Long, tired sigh. Get some sleep, Hutton. Stop thinking.

Pull the covers back. There's a note on the pillow.

Stop, stand there for a few moments, naked and alone, melancholy descending, an avalanche of sadness. This is the other message.

I lift the note, get into bed, pull the covers up and turn on the light. A torn-in-half piece of A4, folded again. A short note, handwriting that I don't recognise because I haven't seen it before, but that I will come to love. Just from these few words.

My Dearest Hutton
... it begins. I laugh. Can't help myself. Such a sad laugh.
It might be tough for a while, but I know we'll be together. It's funny. Feels such a perfect thing, almost as though there's nothing we can do about it.

And I look forward to every single minute. Philo x

I read the note again. And again. By the fourth time I can't see the words for tears. But I know what it says.

––––––––

C
onnor's office. Taylor and I waiting for the great man to pronounce. Two days later. The day after the bishop blew his brains out Connor wasn't seen much around the office. Out most of the day. Nominally reaching out to the community in an official capacity. More likely, desperately trying to save his own arse. The last thing he wants is a bunch of lawyers and bankers and the sort that frequent the churches here ganging up on him and marching on Pitt Street with pitchforks and lighted torches, demanding his removal.

He's making notes on a file while Taylor and I wait. Can't see what he's writing, but I'd bet it's the equivalent of
rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb
. He's not thinking about his stupid file, he's thinking,
hmm, I wonder how much longer I'll leave them sitting there stewing. Oh dear, I wonder if they are stewing. Maybe they're looking at me with contempt. Maybe they think I'm shit. No, no, that's not it. They're awe-inspired with my capacity to take on so much work, and understand that my life is a desperate push to squeeze everything in. Either that or they think I'm a dick.

He looks up, closing the folder as he does so. Yes, he closed the folder without even watching what he was doing. The monkey can multi-task.

'Where are we, Chief Inspector?' he asks.

Good morning, gentlemen. It's been a rough few days. I appreciate all your hard work, though, and the long hours you put in. It must've been awful for you to witness the suicide. Obviously I'll be setting up a trauma risk assessment for the two of you on that, and if there's anything else I can do, or that you think you need, don't hesitate to ask.

That's what he really wants to say.

'Paul Cartwright has been more forthcoming on the matter of Reverend Jones, now that he's in the clear. It appears the two of them had a long-standing feud, and even though the situation of the churches was settled, they both still harboured designs on that which they didn't have. Small-town politics, as we knew all along. Cartwright was trying to engineer a takeover of St Stephen's, the vicar... well, who knows? Trying to destroy St Mungo's and have everyone troop along to his place?'

'There was something of the crazed dictator about him,' I chip in. That probably doesn't help. The grown-ups ignore me.

'I spoke to Mr Cartwright,' says Connor. 'He's fine. He's fine.'

He nods vigorously to himself, realising that he's convincing no one. If Cartwright is fine, it can only be because he's extracting his pound of Connor's flesh in one way or another.

'How did Reverend Jones know what Cartwright was doing?' he asks, when he finally stops nodding at how fine every fucker is.

'Don't know,' says Taylor. 'Will keep looking, but my guess is that Forsyth told him. But could have been any one of them, any one of those who ultimately Jones decided to kill. There are a lot of unanswered questions. We'll keep on it, but there are a lot of people dead, so it makes it harder.'

'And what about this girl in the grave?'

Taylor doesn't immediately answer that. He glances at me, which is fair enough. We've wrapped that one up, all the while ignoring the elephant in the room. Connor looks at me, although you can tell he's reluctant to do so.

I'm not usually capable of artifice, and this particular moment proves no different.

'She haunted me,' I say.

'What?'

Taylor gives me a bit of an eyebrow, but no more than that.

'What?' repeats Connor.

I had this uncle. His name was Malcolm. An accountant. Didn't know him that well. He lived up in Inverness, so didn't see him often. Never married, lived on his own. The dude was quite high up in the Masons apparently. So, you know, he probably knew where the Holy Grail's being hidden, that kind of thing. He knew stuff. Thinking about it, he was probably gay, but was of the generation where you hid it. Didn't tell anyone, didn't let it affect his standing in the community.